


Say It Back

by tomioneer



Series: the shape I'm in [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky is really gone on this boy, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve is a nosy little shit, bitty!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomioneer/pseuds/tomioneer
Summary: Some people are born missing part of their soul, and God gives them the Words to help find it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> People have just a few Words on them, an incredibly important few Words. Words you have likely said to someone in your life time, and if they say it back then that's it, that's them, that's the one, just so long as you feel it. It is a known sensation, though difficult to describe, a deep rush, a weaving of the soul back together. You know when it happens, and it cannot be faked because you feel more yourself: full and right for the first time in your life. There’s a rush of endorphins and you get a little dizzy (which is where the phrase 'dizzy for someone' comes from, it means The One, well and truly). 
> 
> Only not everybody has them. Not everyone has Words. In fact, it’s pretty rare--less than half the Earth’s population. Rarer and rarer every year that a child is born with fine that black lettering written in their soulmate’s native tongue.
> 
> Some people have them though, still. Some people who are thought of as lucky, as blessed, as exceptionally fortunate because they at least know there’s somebody out there to make them complete. Yes, arguments are frequently made that it’s better not to need another person, but no one without words can deny that sometimes they feel a little hollow, a little empty, and a little alone. Sometimes it’s because those people, those who don’t have Words, are one day going to say somebody else’s. And they won’t know it, not at first, but the other person will and no one can fake that look of shock, of delight or awe. And then they feel whole, too.

Bucky is asleep on his stomach and it was hot enough last night he took his shirt off. Pushing himself up, Steve glances around quick-like to make sure no one sees what he’s gonna do. It’s rare enough, he knows, to have Words. Rarer to meet another person who's got them too.

And he knows he’s not supposed to look--he knows it’s classless and invasive and just a terrible thing to do. You don’t  _ look _ at a person’s Words, because then you’re waiting to hear them said to you or somebody else. Or worse, you could use ‘em to  _ hurt _ or trick the other. A real slick guy could make a conversation go just the right way so they get said to him, and then sometime later could say them back all casual. (Just because the books and stories  _ say _ you ‘know’ when it’s the right person doesn’t mean anybody knows what that feels like until it happen to them.)

It’s the worst violation of privacy. It’s so disrespectful to even think about looking at Bucky’s Words, but he’s laying there in the morning light with his arms crossed under his head and his lashes making crescents on his cheeks. An errant curl, there, looping over his smooth brow, and little black letters just above his shoulder blade.

Steve wants to draw him. But more than that, he wants to _read_ _those words_. He wants to know them, so he can keep his ears and eyes peeled for them. To help his friend find the right guy, or gal, or whoever. Taking a breath, one big enough to make his whole chest swell, he holds it--

And leans over to see.

The letters are written the same as his. Stark black, straight as if written over a ruler and so easy to read. He doesn’t let himself though, snapping his eyes closed and pulling back till his spine touches the couch behind him.

Drawing up his knees, Steve tucks his face against them and wraps his spindly arms around himself, rocking just a little. Astonished, ashamed-- _ appalled _ with himself for nearly breaking Bucky’s trust like that. He’s got his own Words covered, right hand wrapped around his forearm, thumb digging into the neat print and covering everything but  _ I h _ .

“You can, you know,” Bucky says, real quiet. Steve stiffens for a minute, then looks over at him. Buck’s still laying down, got his eyes only half open and focused on Steve. He shrugs, and his muscles move and flex and make his skin ripple. Waiting and watching Steve’s startled quiet long enough to say, like there was any doubt what he’s talking about to begin with, “You can read my Words. I don’t mind. I know what yours are anyway.”

Steve’s breath catches, because he’s not like some people who have their Words in an odd place like he does, a place people can see sometimes. He’s  _ careful _ . Never wears short sleeves, never goes out without a coat or a sweater or a bandage over them. Most folks he knows don’t even know he’s got any, so Bucky can’t have seen them.

A smile tugs at his best friend’s mouth, sheepish and a little meek. “I saw ‘em last winter. When you were sick and your ma had to work, and I stuck around to take care of ya? I was the one feedin’ and washin’ you up, and I saw ‘em.” His gaze drops to the wood grain of the floor, tracing a whorl with a finger and tracking it with his blue eyes. “Sorry I never said so.”

It takes a while to get his jaw working again because--if Bucky’s seen Steve’s Words, he knows how often he says them. How often he says them  _ to Bucky _ , because no one else is around to listen usually. And sure he’s tried them out talking to a dame or two, but they never fall so easy from his lips as when he’s walking away from a fight with Buck’s arms over his shoulders or--in one or two cases when Steve’s been real riled up-- _ himself _ slung over Bucky’s back.

“That’s... alright,” he says, forgiving because he has to be, when it’s Buck doing the apologizing. There’s never any alternative between them. “I mean, you’re my best pal, so...”

Pushing up onto his elbows, Bucky smiles at him, slick and bright and easy. “Right! So, uh. If you really wanna see ‘em...” Reaching back, he rubs his neck and ducks his head just a bit, thumb sweeping unconsciously over the little black letters.

What he’s said, though, it puts Steve in a tight spot. He  _ shouldn’t _ be curious about Bucky’s Words, they’re not his business. It’s not his right to know, not really. Even if Buck knows his-- _ has _ known his for months and months now--that’s not the point. “I... shouldn’t,” he says real quiet.

Bucky’s eyes flicker down to Steve’s hand on his own arm, then back up. He’s got that look now, that stubborn, tight-jawed, eyes-blazing look. The guy is determined to share this with Steve, for whatever reason, and Steve knows he won’t be able to say no, not to that look. “Oh, c’mon,” he goads and wiggles closer, going sideways like snakes sometimes do. “It’s only fair. And I trust you.”

“Okay,” he whispers, breathes, and shifts over himself, one hand on the floor between them. Leaning in a little, eyes tracking up the expanse of Bucky’s back, he rolls in his bottom lip. It feels like they’re doing something they shouldn’t. More than sneaking back into movies, more than finding a dollar and not looking for who dropped it or looking at pin-ups Bucky talks the older boys into sharing.

This is bigger than all of that cuz it’s their  _ souls _ they’re sharing this time. You’re not supposed to do this, not with anybody.

“You sure?” he asks really quietly, staring hard at Bucky’s spine instead of his shoulder. Only because he’s looking there does he see how quick his friend’s back is hitching up and down, how fast he’s breathing, and how shallow. Steve’s hand trembles on the floor, fingers curling in towards his palm.

And Bucky’s voice is low and rough, and he shifts where he rests, wiggling down until he has to lift up his feet and his shins are resting on the couch. He’s got his arms folded around a pillow now, head resting in the cradle there. “Yeah.”

Steve just says it again, says  _ okay _ again, and then he moves his gaze over the quivering skin right to those letters.

Like Steve, Bucky has a statement on his back. Like Steve, it’s just one sentence. Like Steve, it starts with  _ I _ . Unlike Steve, Bucky’s got something real, something important there. He’s got a  _ pledge _ as opposed to Steve’s  _ declaration _ .

_ I’m with you _ he reads, fingers of his left hand unconsciously landing on his friend’s back, forefinger sliding along as he reads on:  _ till the end of the line _ .

Bucky  _ shivers _ at the touch.

“I’m with you till the end of the line,” Bucky whisper-breathes into his arms. Steve can barely hear it, muffled as his voice is. But his shoulders rise and his chest expands, and then he breathes out slow and even, relaxing all the way to his toes like he’s glad he’s shared this with Steve.

Steve is really glad. He can’t seem to help himself from touching the words themselves, just a brush of his fingertips on Bucky’s most sensitive skin. People say it’s because the Words are the only tangible part of the soul--when you touch someone’s Words, you’re touching their  _ immortal soul _ , or at least the part they carry with them. It’s this thought that makes him pull back his touch. He doesn’t have any right to Bucky’s soul.

“Gosh,” he murmurs. “That’s real nice, Buck. Better’n mine.”

“Not exactly romantic,” Bucky answers, setting his chin on his arms instead of pushing up to sit like Steve expected. 

Steve’s had this same problem with his own Words, so he tells Bucky what his Ma always told him. “Doesn’t need to be. If the Words are good ones, like yours, that just means you’ll know your soul mate real well first. They’ll already mean something to you when they say it. I think that’s better than some sweet nothing like they’ve got in the storybooks.”

“You think?”

Steve smiles. “Yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be either during Civil War, or during that very comfortable space between the release of the second and third Cap movies. It was written before Age of Ultron's release, however.

“What do they mean?” the soldier asks, pulling at the skin of his shoulder as though it will help him see the words better. “I don’t understand why I have them.”

Steve shrugs, trying not to let the sting show on his face. “It’s just words,” he tries to say, “And they don’t have to mean anything if you don’t want them to.”

Considering this for a moment, Bucky turns once more to see his shoulder in the mirror. Chewing his bottom lip, he releases his shoulder and rolls it a couple times. “What if I want them to, though? What do they mean then?”

“Well,” Steve says carefully, choosy and nervous. “They’re your _Words_.” He thinks the capital letter is implied by his reverent tone. “Some people say they’re a gift from god, because--because the people who have them, they’re missing part of their soul.”

Almost violently, Bucky turns from the mirror, backing away and looking ashamed. He gasps when he bumps into Steve, then turns from him too and backs into the wall. Slumping down it and pushing his side against the cabinet of towels. “I fucking _knew it_ ,” he hisses, “I knew I was, they were right, I’m _wrong_ \--”

It takes a moment to understand. Then Steve is across the room and dropping to his knees, shoving up his left sleeve and brandishing his arm, his Words. Bucky’s breath catches at the sight of them, blue eyes pale and wide and dry with panic. “No! No, there’s nothing wrong with you! Look, I’ve got some too, it doesn’t make you _bad_ , Buck--just special. And you’ve always been special anyway... too charming for your own good, you know?” Swallowing hard, ducking his head to try and catch Bucky’s gaze--a futile effort as his eyes simply track Steve’s Words as he moves. He puts on a smile.

“Some people say,” Steve continues, “that if you have words, you’re lucky. Blessed, even, because--every soul comes to Earth whole. If it’s not all in you, then someone out there’s got the other half and finding them will...” He sighs and curls his fingers into his palms against the urge to reach for Bucky, thread his fingers into his soulmate’s hair and--

He clenches his jaw against the impulse, the need, until he can speak clearly again, voice even. Bucky eyes have drifted up to search his face in anticipation. “Finding them will bring you happiness. Completion. The Words help you, because when you hear them said by the right person, you feel it. It’s... your destiny.”

“How can I have a destiny,” Bucky wants to know, “when I’m hardly a real person? When I’ve outlived everyone I used to know? When I don’t _remember_ anyone but you?” Suddenly wild with alarm he surges to his knees, hands gripping Steve’s upper arms hard. He demands frantically, “I don’t remember--Steve! Did I--did I already _meet_ them? Steve, did I _leave_ them behind? In the war?”

Oh God.

He wants to say _No, of course not_. Wants to say _I’m right here_. Wants to say _Look at me, I said those Words, don’t you remember?_ But the tragic truth of the matter shows on his face, or at least part of it, because Bucky’s whole being fractures in an instant. His fingers tighten and he slumps forward, head resting on Steve’s chest.

“I did,” he whispers, sounding horrified. He keens, “Oh _God_... Who...?”

“No.” Leaning in, Steve wraps himself around Bucky the best he can, banding one forearm behind his neck. With a sharp little breath he adjusts the way he sits, spreading out his legs so Buck is between them and curling one long limb around Bucky’s. It tangles their legs together like they haven’t ever been before, and part of him gets distracted by how intimate it feels.

Pressing his face into his soulmate’s hair he whispers, “Bucky, listen to me.”

The uneven, hitching breaths cease entirely for a moment. Then after one long exhale, Bucky nods against his chest. Lifts his head to hide against Steve’s shoulder instead.

“The way the Words work,” he explains, “is that at some point, you say them to somebody. And you can do that as many times as you want to as many people and it won’t make a lick of difference because you don’t know they’re the other part of you until they say them _back_ . They have to say them to you, too, someday, and that’s when you know. Anybody else could say them to you a hundred times and it wouldn’t matter, because when it’s the right person, you _know_.”

Bucky’s voice is small. “How do you know?”

“Because I already found my soulmate,” he admits. “I found him back in the War, and lost him.”

“Him?”

Steve nods, face still in Buck’s thick hair. Ignoring the odd note in Buck’s voice he confirms, “Yeah, it was a fella. Anyway, I know what it feels like to hear them said right. It’s like nothing else in the world. The most incredible rush, and everything feels suddenly real. You notice things you never saw before, and the whole world makes a little more sense.

“But the hell of it is, the guy who said my Words? It was you.” He keeps it simple, because he’s not sure how Bucky will react. “You’re my soulmate, Bucky. And I’m yours, too. I said your Words to you on the Helicarrier--I dunno if you remember that. When I did, though, I was saying something you told me back in Brooklyn. That you were with me till the end of the line. And it made you stop--”

His breath catches, because Bucky moves against him. Shifting, straightening. Lifting his head to pin Steve with distant blue eyes. “Everything stopped moving,” he murmurs. “And you were crying.”

“Yeah.”

“Steve...” It’s a breath--less than a breath. Bucky’s right hand loosens, slides down Steve’s left arm to curl around his wrist. He pulls back enough to lift the arm between them, and Steve helps him twist it to show the little black letters. Bucky’s lips twitch. “Who did I have on the ropes?”

He swallows. “Just some Nazi asshole.”

Those eyes flicker up to Steve’s and then back down. The intensity of his gaze is breathtaking, like he’s trying to make himself remember saying Steve’s Words. Or maybe just trying to remember them at all. “Hydra?”

“Hydra,” Steve confirms. Swallows. “You got--you fell about a minute later.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whispers again, and now his hands are on Steve’s face and he’s leaning in, pushing them together. Steve clutches his shoulders, pulling him in hard and--

He’s crying over this for the first time since the ice. “I only had you for a minute, and you were gone,” he gasps, shaking in Bucky’s arms. His nose is smushed to Buck’s cheek, but his soulmate doesn’t care, too busy making soft shushing sounds. They’re supposed to be a comfort.

They... kind of are, so familiar and habitual it’s almost instinct for him to relax.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispers. “I’m so--I’d give almost anything to--” He doesn’t have to finish because there are too many things they both want to change. The train, the fall, the crash, the ice, the years and years between then and now, where and who they were back then. “But I’m so _goddamn glad_ ,” he rasps a moment later. “Glad to be here for you now. Everything I went through, not the things I _did_ , but what they did to me--Stevie, you’re _worth it_.”

“Buck--”

“No, you _are_.” Pulling back, framing Steve’s face, he insists, “I may not remember much, but I know how important you were. I’m sure I remember wantin’ it to be you, and I--I don’t think I ever said those words to another living soul. You were the only one I would ever believe was a part’a me. And of course I’d prefer if we could’a just had our life together back then and gone home, but...”

Stopping for a moment, wetting his lips, Bucky takes a breath. Releases it to speak deliberately. Every word is carefully chosen, weighed in his mind and on his tongue. “There’s so much of my life I want to change, Stevie. But you’re the one thing I’d wanna keep. I’m glad for what happened if it meant I could meet you here on the other side of the ice. It was worth it.”

Shaking his head, tears streaking down his cheeks and collecting in the wrinkles and plates of Bucky’s hand, Steve says, “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, Barnes.”

He chuckles. “Shut up, punk, I’m tryin’ ta be romantic.”

“You suck at it.”

“Should wine and dine you instead, Rogers?” Bucky challenges, a hint of his old bravado leaking back in.

“You should shut up,” Steve breathes, “And kiss me.”

For one moment, Buck looks like he’s been struck over the head. Like it never even occurred to him to ask, or to try... But then his lips are parted on an indrawn gasp and he’s pulling Steve in, one hand sliding back to grip Steve’s short hair. He raises one of his own, then the other, shoving both deep into the mess of Bucky’s long waves, so damn soft and silken between his fingers he actually misses it when their lips touch the first time.

That’s okay though.

They do it again right after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small edits made 8/31/17
> 
> Ja na!


End file.
